


Generosity

by tastewithouttalent



Category: ALL OUT!! - Amase Shiori (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward First Times, Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, Established Relationship, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-05 04:11:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11570061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Sekizan's eyes are dark, his mouth is set; he looks determined and focused, as if he’s preparing himself for a rugby match instead of...and Hachioji’s imagination gives way at that, melting into a haze of adrenaline-fueled want before he can get traction on specifics." Sekizan turns eighteen and he and Hachioji have a private celebration of their own.





	Generosity

Sekizan answers the door as soon as Hachioji knocks.

It’s almost instantaneous. Hachioji is left with his hand still in the air, raised in preparation for a second rap against the surface before him; but the door is open already, pulled wide almost as his knuckles touched the flat of it, and Sekizan’s standing in front of him in sweatpants and his usual sakura-patterned t-shirt and his hair tangled into a halo around his head, as if he’s just finished a run and hasn’t yet had time to resettle the waves back into place. Hachioji suspects there’s a different cause this time -- Sekizan’s wide eyes and soft mouth speak to nervous fingers more than the effect of the chill wind running through the streets outside -- but he doesn’t comment on it beyond a single quick glance, just tips his head to the side and offers the most reassuring smile he can find.

“Hello,” he says, and lifts his hand in a wave. “Happy birthday.”

“Hachioji,” Sekizan says, his voice rumbling over Hachioji’s name as if he’s surprised by the other’s presence even though he’s the one who sent the text an hour ago to say  _dinner’s over_  by way of a summons Hachioji understood without needing anything more specific. “You came.”

“Sure,” Hachioji smiles. “You texted me.” He lifts the shopping bag at his side, extending it slightly to make an offering of the contents. “I brought taiyaki, if I can come in.”

“Oh,” Sekizan says, and steps abruptly to the side, like Hachioji’s words have startled him into sudden self-consciousness. “Yes, of course.” He stands at the edge of the entryway holding the door open while Hachioji steps in and works his shoes off by the edge of the tile; it’s not until the other is stepping up onto the smooth floor of the hallway that Sekizan shuts the door properly, and even then he moves carefully, easing the weight of it back into place like he’s afraid of startling a light sleeper awake. Hachioji considers the entryway, bare of any shoes but his own and Sekizan’s set carefully against the edge of the tile, and as Sekizan is easing the latch of the door into place he clears his throat and looks back at the other.

“Just us, then?”

Sekizan’s hands go still on the handle of the door, his shoulders tense under the line of his shirt; then he ducks his head, keeping his face turned towards the door so all Hachioji can see of his expression is the shift of his hair in front of his face. “Yeah. Everyone else went out for the evening.” There’s a pause; then Sekizan takes a breath with enough careful force that Hachioji can hear the effort even before he sees the other’s shoulders straighten, even before Sekizan turns with careful intent to face Hachioji fully. “We have the house to ourselves for at least a few hours.”

Hachioji’s breath rushes out of his lungs. It’s not that this is an enormous surprise -- they’ve talked about this before, in the painful detail that such topics demand when Sekizan is involved -- but after years of waiting it seems strange to have the reality of this at last, seems impossible that fate hasn’t conspired to cause some catastrophe just to prevent the realization of this long-held dream. Hachioji has spent almost the whole of his high school career with a counter in the back of his head, with an awareness of the number of days to Sekizan’s eighteenth birthday ticking down with each passing sunrise even if he rarely commented on such aloud; to have that counter wholly absent as it completes its set function is a freedom so intense as to be dizzying, offering so much possibility that Hachioji hardly knows where to begin.

“Oh,” he says, since he doesn’t have the least idea what else to offer. “Good.”

Sekizan ducks his head. It’s a nod, mostly; the fact that it also lets his hair fall in front of the rising pink in his cheeks is a convenient side effect, Hachioji thinks, more than the primary goal. He clears his throat and extends a hand. “I can take that to the kitchen.”

Hachioji draws the bag back, pulling it close against him before he can think to catch back the motion. “Ah,” he says. “I can hold onto it.” His voice sounds strange, even to his own ears; from the way Sekizan glances up to see his face Hachioji is sure that effect isn’t limited to just him. He can feel his face heating with self-consciousness as he clears his throat and forces himself to speak. “It’s not just taiyaki.”

Sekizan withdraws his hand immediately, bringing his fingers in to curl at his chest instead. “Oh.” They stand there in silence for a moment, staring wide-eyed at each other with as much awkwardness as if this is their first date instead of a long-anticipated step in a years-long relationship; and then Hachioji steels himself, and collects his courage instead, and takes charge.

“Let’s go up to your room.”

Sekizan’s head comes down again, his hair falls to a curtain; but he’s nodding, too, the motion sure enough that Hachioji can see it even with the shadow over the other’s expression. “Yeah,” he agrees; and then he’s turning to lead the way out of the entryway and up the short flight of stairs to the second floor. Hachioji follows, feeling vaguely as if he’s being led into a private haven instead of the utterly ordinary room he’s been in dozens of times, and apparently he’s not the only one, to judge from the way Sekizan holds the door open for him without lifting his face back to visibility.

“In here,” Sekizan says, for all the world as if Hachioji really has never been into his room before, and Hachioji ought to find this at least a little funny but he feels too breathless to laugh, too alight with possibility as he steps over the threshold. It’s just Sekizan’s room, of course, with the desk covered with books and piles of notes in one corner, and a closet along one side, and the narrow bed underneath the curtain-covered window; but Hachioji pauses anyway, hesitating just inside the space while Sekizan pads softly in behind him and shuts the door. The desk is familiar, the closet as ordinary; but the bed is what’s holding Hachioji’s attention, keeping his thoughts as fixed to the tidy alignment of the sheets as if the furniture is a magnet for his gaze.

Sekizan clears his throat from behind Hachioji. “I can take the bag now, if you want.”

“Ah,” Hachioji says, and ducks his head to lift the bag from his side. “Right, yeah. Your taiyaki.” He pulls the paper bag of the pastries from the inside of the larger plastic carrier and turns to offer them back to Sekizan. “Happy birthday!”

Sekizan takes the bag without looking up to Hachioji’s face. His cheeks are flushed to pink still, nearly matching the color of his shirt; his shoulders are tipped forward into a self-consciousness that ought to look absurd with his build and just comes out as heartachingly endearing. “Thank you.” He reaches into the bag to pull out one of the taiyaki and take a bite; it’s only as he’s chewing that he visibly recalls Hachioji and glances up to meet the other’s gaze before extending the bag. “Want one?”

Hachioji shakes his head and holds up his hands to reject the offer. “They’re all yours,” he says. “I had one on the way over.” It’s true, he can still taste the sweet against his tongue; but more immediately his stomach is knotting on nerves, and his breath is coming fast on adrenaline, and he’s not sure he could manage to relax enough to eat anything at all, much less really appreciate it.

Sekizan ducks his head again, far enough forward that his hair falls in front of his face to hide the details of his expression. Hachioji is grateful; it means he doesn’t have to worry about keeping his own reaction neutral, about maintaining the appearance of anything other than the trembling strain of excitement he can feel thrumming through him with every deliberately careful inhale he takes. His hands are shaking against the handle of the bag alongside him; he brings it around in front of him to clasp both hands one atop the other in some vague intention of steadying the motion that way. It helps, a little, or at least it gives him the illusion of control; and then he’s left standing there with a plastic bag clutched in both hands, and his feet planted squarely on the floor of Sekizan’s room, and his heart hammering in his chest while he waits for the other to finish.

Sekizan doesn’t give him any warning. He finishes the first taiyaki with record speed, the usual all-in haste he always shows when he has more than one and doesn’t need to slow the initial rush for the purposes of savoring each bite; but then he lifts his head, and folds the top of the bag over, and is reaching to set it aside while Hachioji is still blinking confusion. He’s never seen Sekizan turn aside from dessert half-finished before, certainly not dessert of his favorite variety; but that’s exactly what he’s doing, now, leaving the bag carefully on his desk and turning back to face Hachioji fully even as he presses his palms in against his hips.

“Okay,” Sekizan says. His eyes are dark, his mouth is set; he looks determined and focused, as if he’s preparing himself for a rugby match instead of...and Hachioji’s imagination gives way at that, melting into a haze of adrenaline-fueled want before he can get traction on specifics. In front of him Sekizan takes a breath and lifts his chin fractionally higher. “I’m ready.”

Hachioji blinks. “What?” He fumbles mentally for meaning, trying to gain traction on Sekizan’s statement; then his eyes go wide, his breath catches. “Do you mean you prepped yourself?” The idea presents itself in vivid clarity in his mind: Sekizan kneeling against the smooth line of the blankets behind him, an arm angled down to hold himself up over the bed, his hips lifting into the air while his free hand slides over his skin, while slick fingers catch and thrust into himself. It’s more than Hachioji can stand; for a moment all he can do is gasp for air, trying to remember the pattern of his own breath while all the blood in his body surges down to flush his cock to sudden, absolute hardness.

Sekizan’s lashes dip, his expression goes slack with confusion. “What?”

Hachioji gusts an exhale and shakes his head hard to dispel the wild fantasies unfurling themselves in his mind. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“You mean--” Sekizan starts, and then closes his mouth hard as his entire face goes shockingly, brilliantly red. Hachioji has never seen Sekizan blush like this before, as if all the blood in his veins has gone abruptly incandescent; he looks like he’s glowing, as if he might be giving off light of his own even as he ducks his head forward to hide behind his hair. “ _Ah_.” Sekizan shifts his feet and rocks his weight back. “No, I didn’t...no.”

“It’s fine,” Hachioji says, letting his deathgrip on the plastic bag go so he can reach out towards Sekizan, so he can take a step forward and extend his fingers towards the shift of the other’s arm against his sleeve. “I read up on it, I brought things myself, it’s fine.” He’s talking fast, his own self-consciousness forgotten in the need to offer reassurance to the awkward tilt of Sekizan’s shoulders; and then his fingers touch bare skin, and Sekizan hisses a strained inhale, and Hachioji snatches his hand back at once.

“Sorry,” he says, and now he’s going red, he can feel himself heating with uncomfortable self-awareness. “Do you…” He pauses to take stock of the angle of Sekizan’s shoulders, of the awkward position of his feet, of the embarrassment straining every line of the other’s body; and he takes a breath, and lets it go into the most cheerful resignation he can find. “We could go downstairs and just watch a movie, you know.”

Sekizan shakes his head, offering immediate rejection to this suggestion even though he’s still flushed scarlet where he’s hiding behind his hair. “No,” he says, and his voice is soft enough Hachioji thinks he might not hear it, were he not so close. “No, I…” He shifts his feet, moves his hand; when he tugs at the front of his sweatpants it’s with his fingers braced awkwardly against the fabric, like he’s trying to hold it as far away from his body as possible. His head comes forward even farther, until all Hachioji can see of him is the curtain of his hair. “I want to.”

It takes Hachioji a moment to process this. In his defense he’s distracted by the rush of his own thoughts, by the pressure of awkwardness and desire warring in close combat for control of his body and voice. But there’s something about the way Sekizan is standing, some familiarity to the hunch of his shoulders and the set of his feet; and then Sekizan tugs at his pants again, pulling against the loose fabric with a touch clearly aimed at furtiveness and failing precisely because of how obvious it makes the attempt, and Hachioji’s understanding snaps into focus exactly as his gaze drops to the visible tension at the front of Sekizan’s clothes.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, breathing the word into the epiphany it is; and then he looks back up, to where Sekizan is doing an impressive job of trying to sink into the shadow of his own hair. Hachioji is sure without even needing to look that Sekizan is going crimson, as embarrassed by his own desire as by any of the uncertainty of the situation; and in the moment of realization Hachioji’s own shyness melts itself down into the simple, easy warmth of affection spreading out through the whole of his body. His mouth curves onto a smile, his chest tenses on the strain of not-quite-laughter, and he reaches out without thinking, without hesitating, crossing the gap between himself and Sekizan without taking the time to overthink the action.

“Sekizan,” he says, and he’s stepping in as quickly as Sekizan’s chin comes up, as fast as the dark of the other’s gaze swings around to pin to him. “Come here” and he’s reaching out and up to slide his hand through the dark of the other’s hair and settle at the back of his neck. Sekizan catches a breath, his lashes dip into reflexive capitulation, and Hachioji comes up onto his toes and pulls Sekizan down so he can press his mouth against the soft part of the other’s lips. Sekizan tastes sweet, like the taiyaki he only just finished eating, and he capitulates instantly to Hachioji’s touch, leaning in and tipping his head as quickly as the other pulls; and Hachioji feels the unusual strain of nerves in him disintegrate and melt away like it was never there at all, as it never needed to be there at all, because in the end it’s just him, and just Sekizan, and he knows how to do this.

Hachioji lingers in the kiss for long seconds, taking his time in savoring the give of Sekizan’s mouth against his and the sweet from the taiyaki still clinging to the other’s tongue and the corner of his lips. It’s not until he can feel some of the strain in Sekizan’s shoulders giving way to the unthinking ease of instinct that Hachioji draws back at all, and even then it’s only by a few inches, only by enough distance that he can reclaim speech and offer words to fall warm against the unthinking part of Sekizan’s lips.

“Here,” Hachioji says, and tightens his hand at the back of Sekizan’s neck, tugging gently to urge the other forward and into the middle of the room. Sekizan follows, his eyes half-shut and his attention fixed to Hachioji’s face; when Hachioji lets his hand slide down the other’s arm to his fingers Sekizan takes his hand without hesitating, closing his grip around Hachioji’s fingers to accept the other’s lead. It makes Hachioji’s blood run hot, to have Sekizan so instantly compliant, to have the whole tall strength of the other rendered utterly submissive just by the pull of his hand, and he keeps backing them up, gaining confidence in his lead with every step they take. By the time they make it to the bed Hachioji has no hesitation left, as if all the research he’s done so far has morphed itself into immediate experience, until all that’s left to do is to lead Sekizan forward and into this as easily as he’s led him across the room. It’s easy to reach up for a kiss -- all Hachioji has to do is lift his chin and take a step in and Sekizan is ducking forward, anticipating the other’s desire before Hachioji even reaches for it. Hachioji lets the bag in his hand slide free, lets the weight of the contents drop to the floor where he can collect them later, and draws his hand free of Sekizan’s hold so he can reach out and fit his fingers under the hem of the other’s shirt instead.

Sekizan shudders at the first touch of Hachioji’s fingers. He always does, on those rare occasions Hachioji has managed to make it this far before Sekizan pulls back with the regular statements of  _it’s too soon_  and  _we’re too young_ , as if there’s an age limit enforced on desire. But this time that tremor isn’t followed by the gentle push of certain hands and the half-embarrassed duck of a head as Sekizan puts voice to his usual refusal, and when Hachioji pushes up all Sekizan does is duck his head forward, and catch a deep breath of heat at Hachioji’s shoulder, and let Hachioji strip his shirt up and off him.

It’s not as if this is a wholly new experience. Hachioji has seen far more of Sekizan than this in the locker rooms, or in the baths, because he respects Sekizan’s insistence on waiting but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to appreciate the flex of muscle across the other’s stomach as he strips or the definition of his thighs when he’s stepping over the lip of the shared bath. But it’s one thing to sneak sideways glances at the unselfconscious beauty of Sekizan’s bare skin alongside him and entirely another to have that laid out deliberately, to have implicit permission to stare as quickly as the hem of the other’s shirt comes up and off him. Sekizan even lifts his arms, to make the motion of Hachioji tugging his shirt free the easier, and Hachioji is left with the flex of Sekizan’s shoulders under his hands, the tremor and strain against the flat of his stomach as he moves, the pale of his skin marked by sun-dark tan lines that stripe across the strength of his bicep. Sekizan slides free of his shirt, straightening so he can lift a hand to push idly back through the fall of his hair before his face, and for a moment all Hachioji can do is groan far in the back of his throat as he watches Sekizan shift with all the natural grace of a model.

Sekizan’s gaze drops to Hachioji immediately, his hand stilling halfway through smoothing back one of the pale ringlets that tangle through the darker red of his hair. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice dipping to the resonance of concern as he reaches out to skim his fingertips gently just over Hachioji’s skin; there’s no suspicion in his voice or in his expression, just wide-eyed concern as innocent as if he isn’t noticing the way Hachioji is flushing warmer just looking at him, as if he doesn’t have the least idea of how he looks, of the picture he makes. Then again, he really might not; it wouldn’t be the first time, in Hachioji’s experience.

“Come here,” he says without offering a more coherent explanation, reaching out to drop the shirt to the floor so he can reach out for Sekizan’s bare skin instead, and when they come together this time it’s with Hachioji’s hands sliding up against Sekizan’s sides, his fingers spread wide to catch and brace at the shift of the other’s breathing in his chest. Sekizan shivers with the weight, his muscles jumping with involuntary ticklishness, and Hachioji grins against the other’s mouth and lets his hands come up higher, spreading out to trail across the span of Sekizan’s shoulders like he’s gathering the full spread of the other’s body in against him. Sekizan tips in closer under Hachioji’s touch, his shoulder canting forward as if he’s melting beneath the heat of the other’s fingertips, and Hachioji keeps moving, drawing his hands up and around until he’s bracing his palms at Sekizan’s shoulders, until he’s holding the solid presence of the other’s existence steady under his touch. He gusts an exhale at Sekizan’s mouth, feels his fingers tighten against the other’s skin for a moment; and then he slides back down, trailing his touch back in an inversion of the first motion so he can bring his fingertips against the edge of Sekizan’s sweatpants instead and follow the heavy line of the other’s waistband around to the front of his hips.

Sekizan shudders at the contact. Hachioji can feel the exhale against his lips, can sense the whole tremor of nervous adrenaline that runs through Sekizan standing so close against him; but Sekizan doesn’t ask him to stop, just tightens his fingers to a steadying grip at Hachioji’s shoulder and lets the other continue. Hachioji pauses with his fingers against fabric, and his heart pounding helplessly in his chest; and then he takes a breath, and slides his thumb under the waistband, and pushes to ease Sekizan’s pants free of the other’s hips. Sekizan is breathing harder, his head tipped so far forward all Hachioji can see of him is the part of his hair and the dark fall of the strands before his features; but Hachioji doesn’t look away, he keeps watching the duck of Sekizan’s head and the curve at the back of Sekizan’s neck even as he lets the fabric go to slide down and off the other’s hips while he reaches in and under to press his palm close against the thin layer of fabric that is all that remains between his fingers and the heat of Sekizan’s body.

It’s gratifying how immediately Sekizan reacts. The hand at Hachioji’s shoulder tightens, fingers digging in hard against the give of the other’s shirt, palm weighting against Hachioji’s body like Sekizan is trying to brace himself steady against the minimal force of the other’s touch. Against Hachioji’s palm Sekizan’s hips rock forward, reflexive tension in the other’s body surging forward to meet him; and against Hachioji’s fingers, sliding in to settle at the curve of his palm, the whole of Sekizan’s cock is pinned close against his touch even with the thin fabric still keeping one from the other. Sekizan makes a low noise in the back of his throat, something closer to orgasmic than any more reasonable response under the circumstances; but then, Hachioji can feel how achingly hard he is, can feel the insistent force of the other’s arousal sliding against his palm, and in the end maybe it’s not that unreasonable of a reaction after all.

“Sekizan,” Hachioji breathes, the other’s name dropping to reverence on his tongue; and he’s sliding his fingers up without waiting for more, curling his thumb in under the waistband of Sekizan’s briefs so he can tug at the elastic and pull it down and away from hot-flushed skin. Sekizan whimpers at the motion, the sound high and plaintive as Hachioji has never heard it before; but he doesn’t tell Hachioji to stop by word or motion, and so Hachioji keeps pushing with his heart beating the faster by the second. The fabric slides down, Sekizan’s fingers flex hard at Hachioji’s shoulder; and then Sekizan is free, and Hachioji is looking down, his attention draw unavoidably to the bare heat of the other’s body. There’s a rumple of fabric, dark cloth caught and tangled around his reaching fingers; but that’s irrelevant, under the circumstances, because there’s Sekizan too, strong legs and pale skin and the flush of his cock hard and curving up towards the trembling flat of his stomach, and all Hachioji can think to do is breathe out a lungful of air and reach out to urge Sekizan to drop back to sit at the edge of the bed, to lean in and push the other down flat over the sheets beneath them.

“God,” he says, “You are so beautiful” and he means it, even before his fingers brush against the resistance of the other’s length, even before Sekizan’s whole body trembles and he makes a sharp, wanting noise of desire in the back of his throat. It’s enough to bring Hachioji’s attention up from the way his hand looks against Sekizan’s body, up from the fit of his fingers in and around the flushed color of the other’s length and to the pink of Sekizan’s cheeks instead, to the tremor at his lips and the color across his face. Sekizan has his head ducked down, his chin tucked towards his chest like he’s trying to hide his expression; but his position is such that even this doesn’t grant him so much as a shadow from the illumination overhead, does nothing but highlight the part of his lips as he catches the soft of the lower curve in his teeth, as his hand slides and clutches at Hachioji’s neck. His cheeks are warmed with color, his lashes dark against his skin; and then those same lashes flutter, and his gaze comes up, and Hachioji and Sekizan are left to stare at each other as Hachioji’s hand tightens against the other’s length. Sekizan looks uncertain, a little like he’s lost, a little like he’s adrift in the moment; there’s a measure of stress creasing his forehead, a shimmer of self-consciousness in the color of his eyes. And he’s staring up at Hachioji, lips parted and eyes wide and his whole focus turned up to the other; and Hachioji takes a breath, and feels himself steady out into this moment like he’s rising to the demand in that gaze.

“You look so good,” he says again, because it’s true and he’s not sure Sekizan heard him the first time; and he moves without waiting for a response, tightening his hand into a steady grip before stroking up and over Sekizan beneath him. Sekizan’s eyes go wide, his focus dissolves, and Hachioji loses his breath, all the air rushing out of his lungs at once as he watches heat break over Sekizan’s expression. The other’s cheeks flush dark, his lips part on a moan that runs itself higher than Hachioji has ever heard from the other before, and Hachioji braces himself hard against the bed, spreading his fingers wide and locking his elbow to hold himself up against the first dizzying rush of arousal that runs through him like it’s answering the sound of want so clear at Sekizan’s lips.

“Oh my god,” Hachioji breathes, his voice giving way until he’s not sure Sekizan hears him at all; but it doesn’t matter in any case, not when Sekizan is so clearly coming apart from conscious awareness of his surroundings as he is. He’s gasping for air, choking over long, deep breaths that Hachioji can see work in the flex of his chest and the shift of his shoulders; when he lifts a hand it’s to shove roughly through his hair, to urge the strands off his forehead and make a fist against them at one and the same time. His whole body is coloring to pink, the heat glowing across his face spreading down his neck to spill across his shoulders and over his chest, and Hachioji can’t look away, can barely remember to blink for the complete attention he’s giving to Sekizan coming apart beneath him.

“Fuck,” he says, and his voice is shaking but that one word is crystal-clear, louder than he intended and carried more on the heat filling his chest than conscious decision. “Sekizan, you are so--”

“Hachioji,” Sekizan gasps, and his lashes are dipping, his hips are coming up, his whole body is shifting to rise to meet Hachioji’s touch. His lips are parted, the curve of them flushed to red almost as dark as his hair, his head is falling to the side to bare the tense line of his throat; and Hachioji takes a breath, and whimpers the gust of his exhale with helpless force as he stares at Sekizan falling apart before him.

“Sekizan,” he says again, barely thinking of his words at all for the attention he’s giving the picture Sekizan is making before him. “ _God_ , I want to fuck you.”

It’s too much honesty. Hachioji realizes that as soon as he hears the sound of his own words, as soon as his ears register the low, smoky weight of them pulling over the tension of sincerity in his chest. Hachioji closes his mouth hard, pressing his lips together with as much haste as if he can possibly still the sound of his own words retroactively; but Sekizan is blinking himself back into focus, and turning his head to look up at Hachioji over him, and there’s no way to duck away from the wide-eyed shock in the other’s expression. Hachioji swallows hard, and takes a breath, and tries to find words to explain those he just blurted without thinking.

“I mean,” he says, and ducks his head in an attempt to collect himself, in an attempt to find coherency again for the adrenaline-soaked whirl of his thoughts. This might work better if he didn’t have his hand still closed tight around Sekizan’s length; as it is the shift in perspective just flushes his cheeks hot with self-consciousness and makes his own cock jerk with renewed heat against the inside of his jeans until Hachioji flinches with the insistence of it. “I just--”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sekizan says, speaking so fast that one word catches and tangles against his lips into almost a gasp. He presses his lips together, swallows with enough force that Hachioji can see his throat working over the motion, and blinks hard to clear his stare up at the other. “Yes,” he says again, a little more softly but no less intently. “Me too.” He takes a breath and lets it out slowly; Hachioji can hear the tremor under the sound. “Please.”

Hachioji has to duck his head at that, has to shut his eyes and take a breath and pull all the scattered details of his awareness back in around him. It’s one thing to know how he feels, to know what it is he’s aching for as he has been aching for the years of enforced patience Sekizan’s restraint has set him to; it’s quite another to hear it from Sekizan’s own mouth, to see the heat dark across the other’s cheeks and parting at his lips and flushing him to such steady resistance under Hachioji’s grip.

“Okay,” Hachioji says, finally, and loosens his hold on Sekizan’s cock with deliberate focus. Sekizan catches a breath as Hachioji’s fingers slide away from him, the sound oddly loud in the quiet of the room, but Hachioji doesn’t look back; he doesn’t want to give himself the chance to be distracted, not when he has things he needs to be prioritizing instead. At least the bag is in easy reach; he doesn’t have to get off the bed to curl his fingers into one of the handles and draw it in towards him, and with only a few items left in it it’s easy to find what he’s looking for.

“Do you know what to do?” Sekizan asks. His voice is not-quite-level; Hachioji doesn’t dare look up to see the expression that goes along with that tone. He can hear Sekizan take a breath, can hear the bed squeak as the other pushes himself up onto his elbows. “I can try to do it myself if you want.”

Hachioji shakes his head. That, at least, is an easy question to answer, even if his heart is pounding so loud in his chest he half-expects Sekizan to comment on it. “No,” he says, and pulls out the bottle of lube he bought a few weeks ago, late enough at night that the store clerk didn’t comment on the crimson that utterly suffused his face for the whole interaction. “I want to do it.” It’s a true statement, certain at his lips even as his hands tremble on the bottle, and from the rush of Sekizan’s exhale loud in the space it’s the one the other wanted to hear, even if he’ll never admit to it. Hachioji keeps his gaze fixed on the bottle in his hands instead of looking up to see the way Sekizan is watching him; it’s as much as he can manage as it is, just getting the lid open and the liquid inside spilled over his fingers without stalling himself to stillness on the rising panic of anticipation in him. It’s an easy process, at least, simpler than he expected to wet all four fingers with lube; and then he doesn’t have anything else to occupy his attention, and all he can do is look back to meet Sekizan’s wide-eyed gaze.

“Okay,” Hachioji says, and gestures vaguely with his free hand. “You should turn over,” he says, surprised at how calm he sounds. “It’s supposed to be a little easier if you’re face down.”

Sekizan’s chin tips down, his cheeks flush darker; but: “Okay,” he says, so softly Hachioji almost can’t hear him, and then he’s moving to turn over with careful intent. Hachioji stares at the shift of the other’s body in front of him, too caught by the allure of Sekizan’s bare skin to think about the intensity of his gaze as Sekizan’s thighs flex, as he braces his hands against the bed to lower himself down against the sheets; and then he’s on his stomach, letting his knees slide back to lower himself entirely to the bed, and there’s nothing in front of Hachioji but the whole of Sekizan laid bare before him.

Hachioji can’t hold back the gust of the exhale at his lips and he doesn’t make the effort to so much as try. “God,” he breathes, and he reaches out on reflex, lifting his off hand to touch against the back of Sekizan’s leg, to brush his fingertips against the tan line that marks such a clean break halfway up Sekizan’s thigh. Sekizan shudders under him, the muscle beneath Hachioji’s touch twitching at the contact, but other than a short gasp of an inhale he doesn’t offer anything else close to protest. After a moment he even slides his knee wider by an inch, the tiny motion against the bed enough to make an offering of the whole inside line of his thigh and draw Hachioji’s attention up, against the back of Sekizan’s knee and over the dark of his tan line and higher, to the pale inside of his thighs and the curve of his ass and...and Hachioji breathes out, his exhale pulled so suddenly from him it sounds more like a groan than anything else. “ _Sekizan_.”

Sekizan takes a breath down against the sheets. Hachioji can hear the strain of anticipation on the sound, can see the tremor of tension forming itself against the line of Sekizan’s shoulders; it’s like the whole of the other’s body is winding tighter in front of him, as if Hachioji can watch the slow rise of panicked nerves in the disintegration of Sekizan’s comfort. He fills his lungs with a deep breath of oxygen, holds it for a long span of time; and then lets it out at once, and flattens his ghosting touch at Sekizan’s thigh to the full press of his palm.

“Okay,” Hachioji says, and he sounds certain, if nothing else, he sounds like he’s calm and confident and able to take over this situation. “All you need to do from here is relax.” Sekizan shudders a long exhale; Hachioji can see the strain of it ripple across the other’s shoulders and down the dip of his back, quivering through him like it’s draining all the stored-up tension from the muscles of his body to leave him sagging boneless against the support of the sheets beneath him. Hachioji takes another breath. It comes more easily, this time. “You can shut your eyes, too.” Sekizan’s lashes dip obediently, his shoulders ease a little more as he breathes out into the dark of his shut eyes; and Hachioji ducks his head down to watch the motion of his hands instead.

It’s easy to follow up the line of Sekizan’s body, a simple thing to trail against the flexing muscle of his thigh and up to the curve of his ass, to the sharp line of his hip. Sekizan’s back shifts at Hachioji’s touch, his muscles trembling with ticklish reflex as Hachioji touches him; but he doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t open his eyes, and Hachioji keeps moving, settling his hand carefully against the dip of Sekizan’s back so he can feel the other’s reactions as much as see them. It makes him feel steadier, like this, to have his palm pressing flush against the other’s skin and his touch bracing Sekizan down against the sheets; and then he reaches out, his movements careful but unhesitating, and touches his fingertips against the tight heat of Sekizan’s body in front of him. Sekizan shudders, the breath rushing out of him in a gasp that Hachioji is fairly confident is more involuntary than deliberate, and Hachioji takes a breath and reaches for something to offer by way of reassurance.

“It’s okay,” he says, and drags his fingers up and over Sekizan’s skin, pressing slippery wet against the other without offering any kind of pressure behind the motion. “Just relax, I’ll go slow.”

“I’m fine,” Sekizan says, “I can take it” but his voice is trembling, his body is trembling, Hachioji can feel the whole of the other’s body shaking under his touch.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Hachioji says, looking up from the motion of his fingers to Sekizan’s face instead. Sekizan’s eyes are squeezed shut, his forehead creasing with the same tension trembling at his lips; he looks the opposite of relaxed, like he’s bracing himself for a competition instead of relaxing into pleasure. Hachioji keeps rubbing careful circles over him. “We can stop any time it’s too much, just tell me.”

Sekizan takes a shaky breath and lets it out in a rush; Hachioji can see the tension in his face ease, if only a little bit, and even if it’s just via force of will it’s still something. He ducks his head into the outline of a nod. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Hachioji repeats, and then he slides his touch back to line up with Sekizan’s entrance again. “I’m going to try.”

Hachioji moves slowly. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing -- he’s only experimented with himself a few times over the last weeks, during the gap between his own eighteenth birthday and Sekizan’s, and those were a radically different experience, with the immediate feedback of his own body to tell him when he was going too fast or pushing too hard. This feel like moving blind, as if he practiced with his eyes open and is now trying to act in the dark, with only the friction of Sekizan’s body tensing around him to guide his motions. He presses his fingertip in against the slick-wet of Sekizan’s body, feels the slip of the lubrication easing even that motion into the tingling adrenaline of anticipation; and then he presses, gently at first and then a little harder, increasing his force as he feels Sekizan start to ease to him. Sekizan takes a breath, the sound of it loud enough that Hachioji can hear it clearly even over the sound of his own heart beating hard in his chest; and then the resistance to Hachioji’s touch eases all at once, Sekizan’s body opens to him in a single trembling motion, and Hachioji is pressing to slide the first knuckle of his finger forward and into the soft friction of Sekizan’s body before him.

“ _Oh_ ,” Hachioji gasps, coherency stripped from him for a breathless moment by the heat of Sekizan around him, by the tension, by the sudden, dizzying awareness that he’s actually inside the other’s body, that Sekizan can feel the stretch of his touch sliding forward and into him right now, at this exact moment. Hachioji closes his mouth and swallows hard in a futile attempt to clear his thoughts. “Sekizan.” He shifts his hand, moving his touch as he tries to come to terms with the reality of this moment, of his present existence of knowing that Sekizan feels like this, tight and hot and trembling just from the touch of his finger. “This is amazing.” He blinks, struggling to bring his focus back to Sekizan’s expression, to the dark of the other’s lashes and the open part of his lips. “Are you okay?”

Sekizan ducks his head without opening his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. His cheeks are stained pink with heat, Hachioji can see the color rising into them with every shift of his own hand. “I’m alright.”

Hachioji lets his breath go all at once. “Good,” he says; and then he draws his touch back, shifting his hand as he works through a slow stroke forward to press deeper. Sekizan’s shoulders flex, his breath rushes from him; but he doesn’t protest, and after a moment the tension in his body eases as he makes a clear, conscious effort to relax into the strain. Hachioji keeps his gaze fixed on Sekizan’s face, keeps his attention holding to the other’s expression even as he draws back for another motion. “Tell me if you’re not.” Sekizan ducks his head, agreement unvoiced but certain all the same; and Hachioji slides his touch back, and moves in again, with more determination behind the action this time.

It’s easier than he expected it would be. This has been the most intimidating part of the process: it’s too unknown, too unstructured, something wholly novel that Hachioji has known they would have to traverse to make it to their stated goal. But it’s so simple, distractingly so; after that first press forward Hachioji can move almost at will, can slide forward and stroke back without even really needing to think about it. It seems impossible that it can be this easy, that he can make so little effort and be so intimately linked with Sekizan under him already; but it’s true, he can feel the reality of it with every flutter of reflexive tension that ripples through Sekizan before him. It’s only a few strokes before Hachioji can fit the whole of one finger into Sekizan’s body, before he can take full-length thrusts with each motion; and from there it’s just a matter of finding a rhythm, of dropping into a pattern for the movement of his arm and hand to work the other into ease, to accustom Sekizan to the pressure inside him enough to override that instinctive tension still clenching hard against Hachioji’s touch every so often. Sekizan’s forehead creases every few seconds, as Hachioji shifts position or just as his own body tenses against the unfamiliar pressure; but he relaxes past it before Hachioji can say anything, deliberately going slack over the sheets before them until he looks almost calm, until the color in his cheeks starts to look more like the start of pleasure than the tense discomfort it was originally. Hachioji shifts his knees, adjusting to a more steady angle against the mattress beneath him, and then he draws his touch back so he can press against Sekizan with another finger. The extra strain tenses Sekizan’s forehead and presses a huff of air from his lungs; but then he takes a breath and eases with the exhale, relaxing until Hachioji can carefully work his fingers in past the first knuckle and down towards the second.

Hachioji takes a breath and tries to calm the flutter of his heart pounding out of time in his chest. “Sekizan.” His fingers slide back, his hand pushes forward; before him Sekizan groans an exhale, tensing briefly around the stretch of Hachioji’s fingers for a drag of friction before he loosens again. Hachioji can feel the pressure like it’s spilling arousal directly into his veins, like it’s surging his cock hotter against the restriction of his pants still buckled close over his hips. “I’m going to speed up.”

Sekizan opens his eyes and tips his head to look back over his shoulder. His hair is falling over his face; with his lips parted on the heat of his breathing and his lashes dipping shadow over his gaze, Hachioji is sure the other is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Okay.”

Hachioji keeps watching Sekizan’s face, holds the unintended heat of the other’s gaze as he draws his fingers back. “I want to make it feel good,” he says, and has to close his mouth to swallow moisture back over his tongue before he can trust his voice over the next words. “Tell me if it does.”

Sekizan’s forehead creases, his mouth tightens onto almost a pout. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” Hachioji pulls his fingers back and pushes back in again, carefully, gauging the give of Sekizan’s body to his touch. “I want you to like it too.”

“I do,” Sekizan says at once, and Hachioji probably should have seen that coming, given the experience he has with Sekizan’s unflinching sweetness. “I’m okay.”

Hachioji huffs a laugh. “I know,” he says again, and shifts his hand, twisting his fingers to gain a little more maneuverability, to adjust himself inside the grip of Sekizan’s body. Sekizan’s lashes dip, his legs flex for a moment, and Hachioji takes a breath that he can hear catch with effort in his chest. “I want you to be more than okay, though.” His heart is racing, his thoughts stuttering; he forces words past his lips anyway, letting them come out in a rush instead of trying to catch them back into anything like rationality. “I want to feel you come while I’m inside you.”

Sekizan’s eyes go wide, his throat spills a whimper; Hachioji can feel his own face go hot but he doesn’t try to collect himself, doesn’t try to back out of his confessional admission. “So,” he says, and draws his fingers back to take a full thrust forward once more. “Tell me if it feels good.”

Sekizan’s inhale is loud in the space around them, Hachioji can hear the catch of it even as the other turns his head down against the sheets in a nod. “Okay.”

“Good,” Hachioji says, and then he starts moving with intention, shifting the angle of his fingers as he presses inside Sekizan with as much attention as he can bring to the moment, given the constant distraction of how Sekizan feels around him.

For a while it seems like a futile attempt. Sekizan is far more relaxed now than he was; Hachioji can feel the temptation of the other’s ease with every forward stroke of his fingers, can feel his cock twitch inside his pants with every thought of how simple it would be to strip his jeans off, to fit his legs against the inside of Sekizan’s and push himself forward and into the slick-hot tension of the other’s body. He wants to, he can feel the desire spiking high in him with every breath he takes; but he fights it back, and fights it down, and keeps his focus on what he’s doing and how he’s moving instead of what he could be doing, what he  _will_  be doing in the near future. This is important, he tells himself, he wants to do this right, wants to make this the best experience for Sekizan that it can be; and so he keeps moving, carefully, sliding in and drawing back and shifting his angle to press inside the give of Sekizan’s body in pursuit of the other’s reaction, in an effort to chase down a shudder of something more than passive surrender. Sekizan’s eyes are shut again, his forehead creased with attention, Hachioji thinks, more than strain; it’s like he’s giving his full focus to the movement of Hachioji inside him, like he’s tracking the other’s motion with complete attention. That idea all by itself is enough to steal Hachioji’s breath, to urge the slide of his fingers to greater force just knowing how focused Sekizan is on the sensation; and he’s staring right at Sekizan’s face when his fingers slide, and his touch drives against the other’s body, and Sekizan gasps an inhale and opens his eyes wide at once.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, “Hachioji--”

“Yeah,” Hachioji says immediately, his heart skipping on speed in his chest. “Let me--” and he tries again, imitating his last motion as precisely as possible. Sekizan doesn’t jerk, this time, doesn’t tense against Hachioji’s touch; but his forehead is creasing, his mouth is tensing, and what focus there is in his eyes now is fixed on some distant point, like he’s watching something wholly separate from reality. “There?” Hachioji asks, and moves again. “Does it feel good?”

Sekizan frowns and shakes his head in a motion that looks more like focus than rejection. “It feels--” he starts; and then Hachioji’s fingers slide forward, and Sekizan’s breath rushes out of him at once, spilling free into a groan that Hachioji can feel prickle down the whole of his spine. Sekizan turns his head down against the sheets, gasps a breath Hachioji can hear straining around heat, and Hachioji draws back immediately, without waiting for the verbal encouragement Sekizan is so clearly losing his grasp on.

“How does it feel?” he asks, curiosity and heat both urging the words from his lips as he strokes forward and into the heat of Sekizan’s body. He can feel ripples of reaction tensing Sekizan against his fingers, can feel the jolt of response that comes with each forward motion he takes; it makes his heart pound harder in his chest, makes his breathing come faster at his lips. “Sekizan?”

“I don’t know,” Sekizan says, without lifting his head from the sheets. One hand eases from the grip he has on the blankets beneath them and comes up to push through his hair and settle at the back of his neck; Hachioji can see the strain in Sekizan’s fingers against his skin like he’s bracing himself. “It feels...heavy, sort of.” Hachioji’s fingers come forward, Sekizan’s breath rushes out of him. “Like pressure. I think--” and Hachioji pushes forward with deliberate force. Sekizan’s thighs flex, tensing him against the bed as his back arches, as his shoulders flex, and the sound he makes more than speaks for him even before he’s been able to gasp a lungful of air to find words. “ _Oh_. It feels  _good_.”

“Yeah,” Hachioji says, agreement more than encouragement, because it  _does_  feel good, even just as they are, with his pants still buckled around his hips and only his fingers working into Sekizan. His heart is racing, his skin is burning to heat; he can feel each of Sekizan’s reactions working hard around him, can feel the shift of the other’s body responding immediately to his touch. He wonders what it would feel like around his cock. “Sekizan?”

Sekizan tips his head fractionally to the side. “Yeah?”

Hachioji takes a breath, holds it for a moment; and then lets it go slow, in time with the careful slide of his fingers back and out of the other. “I’m going to try.”

Hachioji can hear the inhale Sekizan takes, can hear the startled, near-panicked edges of the sound; but “Yes,” is what Sekizan is saying, and when he moves it’s to turn his head farther to the side, to twist so he can look back over his shoulder at Hachioji kneeling behind him. Hachioji rocks back over his heels, trying to steady his thoughts into something he can make any sense of; and then he gives up the attempt, and settles instead on taking the next immediate action of getting his clothes off as quickly as possible.

It’s a remarkably effective approach. He pulls his shirt up over his head first thing, simply because that’s easiest; and then unfastens his belt, because that’s the next most important piece. After that comes his fly, and then he has to get up off the bed to shed his pants and boxers with them as efficiently as possible; but Sekizan stays where he is, even as he turns his head so he can keep watching Hachioji shed what remains of his clothing and leave it to fall in a heap at the floor. Hachioji feels a prickle of self-consciousness as he pushes his clothes down his hips -- it’s not the first time Sekizan’s seen him naked, but it’s the first time he’s ever been so obviously turned on at the time -- but it doesn’t seem fair to try to hide himself, not when Sekizan has been laid bare for some minutes. So Hachioji pushes his pants down his legs, and steps free of the fabric, and when he turns back to Sekizan it’s with his heart fluttering in his chest, and his breathing catching in his throat, and nothing at all between his body and the force of Sekizan’s absolute attention.

“So,” Hachioji manages, hearing his voice quaver and not sure he could stop it if he tried. “Still sure you want to do this?”

Sekizan is staring at him. His face is half-hidden in shadow, his hair tangling across his features until all Hachioji can see of him is the shift of his lashes and the part of his lips. But his focus is evident, clear in the wide-eyed attention behind his eyes and audible in the huff of his breathing, and for a moment all Hachioji can do is stand still and let Sekizan look him over, let Sekizan take his measure against whatever hopes and expectations the other might have built up over the last few years of their relationship. There’s a shiver of self-consciousness, a prickle of uncomfortable self-judgment that Hachioji rarely feels anymore, but that is too deeply ingrained to fully undo even with long months of constant affection. He’s not tall enough, he’s too heavy, his skin is too white and his legs are too thick and his arms are too short; and then Sekizan’s gaze slides up to meet his, and whatever self-deprecating narrative is running through Hachioji’s head is knocked entirely away by the absolute, unequivocal appreciation in Sekizan’s face.

“Hachioji,” Sekizan breathes, and for a moment Hachioji can’t even give voice to an answer for how tight his throat has gone, for how suddenly difficult it is just to find a breath of air. He has to press his lips tight together, has to blink hard to hold back a sudden rush of heat from spilling to wet across his cheeks, and even then he has to duck his head so he doesn’t keep staring at the way Sekizan is gazing at him.

“Just a minute,” he says, and then he’s dropping to a knee and reaching for the box still in the bag he brought with him. It’s open already -- he did a few tests with this on his own, just to avoid awkwardness now -- and he’s grateful for that, that he doesn’t have to fight with the cardboard or stumble over the process of unwrapping one of the condoms inside. This he knows how to do, if only barely, and it’s pleasant to have such a straightforward process to work through, of fitting the thin plastic against himself and rolling it down to cover the length of his cock. He feels a little more in control of himself by the time he’s done and looking back up; and then he sees Sekizan again, still lying across his bed, still with his knees tipped open for Hachioji, still with the whole of his body flushed pink with the heat of anticipation, and Hachioji is very, very sure that this was absolutely worth the wait.

“Sekizan,” he says, and he’s leaning in without getting to his feet, ducking closer to press his mouth to Sekizan’s right where he lying. Sekizan shuts his eyes at once, whimpering a faint noise of surprise as Hachioji’s lips fit against his, but Hachioji doesn’t mind any more than he minds the awkward angle Sekizan’s position imposes on them or the fact that he’s catching a few strands of the other’s hair against his lips. It’s enough to be kissing Sekizan, to have the sweet of the other’s mouth pinned warm against his own; and then he’s pulling away and getting to his feet to he can make his way back to kneel at the end of the bed. It’s only a few steps, only a few seconds’ time before he’s sliding back into place and reaching out to brace himself against Sekizan’s hips, but it’s enough time to stick the breath in his lungs, and tighten the pressure at his chest, and leave him feeling shaky and light-headed even with the minimal effort needed to kneel against the soft of the blankets under him. Hachioji takes a deep breath, deliberately drawing out the action so he can draw as much stability as he can from the air in his lungs; and then he tightens his hold against Sekizan, and looks down to guide himself visually as much as possible as he leans in and towards the heat of the other’s body.

It’s harder to manage than he expected. It seemed like this would be the easy part, when everything was said and done; but it’s not the simple matter of slotting their bodies together Hachioji imagined, in the variety of fantasies he’s tried on in the dark of his bedroom or the steam of the shower. He slips against Sekizan on his first try, the wet of the other’s skin and the lubrication of the latex around him running slick one over the other on the first attempt and then again on the slower, second pass; Hachioji has to pull back to collect himself, has to take a moment to steady out the logic of his thoughts from the near-frantic action he can feel himself slipping into. He takes a breath, lets it out slowly; and then braces himself over his knees enough to free a hand so he can reach down and hold himself still as he rocks in carefully towards Sekizan underneath him. Sekizan’s shoulders are tense, his thighs trembling under Hachioji behind him; but he doesn’t voice protest, doesn’t make any attempt to move himself away as Hachioji lines up the head of his cock with the other’s entrance. Hachioji can hear himself breathing, can hear the rough heat of effort in his chest as he adjusts himself; and then he’s in place, and the only thing left to do is to brace his knees, and flex his thighs, and rock himself forward and into Sekizan in front of him.

It happens slowly. Hachioji has thought of this over and over, for the past months if not years; he’s relived this moment so often it feels like déjà vu to be experiencing it now, to have it in the immediacy of reality. But it’s harder than he expected, there’s more resistance against him even as Sekizan gasps and tries to relax over the bed, and as it is Hachioji is huffing an exhale and pushing forward harder instead of savoring the moment, his heart racing and thoughts speeding over fear:  _am I hurting him, am I pushing too hard, is it too soon, should I have waited longer?_  It’s not until his bracing hand bumps against Sekizan’s skin that he realizes, abruptly, that he’s inside the other, that he’s inches deep into Sekizan’s body, that the tension flexing hard around him is--

“Oh god,” Hachioji breathes. His hold on himself falls away; he reaches out to clutch at Sekizan’s hip instead, to hold to the other as if to a lifeline enough to hold him to this moment, to brace him in the reality of this experience. “ _Sekizan_.” Sekizan makes a sound against the bed before him, something soft and shaky, and Hachioji takes a breath and struggles for coherency enough to think about something beyond the tension surging up his spine and knotting in his stomach with every beat of his heart. “Are you--am I hurting you?”

Sekizan’s hair shifts against the bed; it takes Hachioji a moment to realize he’s shaking his head. “No,” he offers, a moment later, and his voice sounds strange and half-muffled by the sheets but the answer is clear, there’s no question of his meaning even to Hachioji’s heat-hazed thoughts.

Hachioji tightens his hands at Sekizan’s hips and fills his lungs with air. “Okay,” he says, and then, for good measure: “I’m going to move,” as he suits actions to words without hesitation. He draws back by a half-inch, feels the pressure sliding slick over him as he pulls away; and then he rocks forward again, letting instinct bring him forward with something almost like grace, and feels himself sink a little deeper, press a little farther. He can’t help the way his breathing catches at that, can’t help the high, straining inhale in his throat; all he can do is move again, drawing back and rocking forward, and this time Sekizan relaxes at the same time, his body easing to the pressure so Hachioji can slide forward entirely in a single smooth stroke. Hachioji’s hips come flush with Sekizan’s, his breath leaves his lungs in a gust that sounds a little like a groan; and he goes still for a moment, just to feel the rhythm of his heart hammering in his chest, and the heat of sweat glowing against his skin, and the pressure of Sekizan tight and hot and  _real_  around him.

Sekizan’s the one who shifts first, who turns his head and lifts an arm to angle up in front of his face, to brush his fingers against the tangle of his hair against the sheets. He’s not looking at Hachioji; he’s staring ahead of him, his eyes half-lidded and his lips parted, and his cheeks are flushed to such a pink that he looks like he’s carrying a sunburn under his skin, as if the weight of Hachioji’s attention on him carries the effect of summer sunlight. Hachioji stares at Sekizan for a moment, letting this experience take shape in his memory, forming all the details to crystal-clarity in his thoughts; and then he lets his exhale go, and lets himself lean forward and towards the heat of Sekizan’s skin beneath him. His chest presses against Sekizan’s spine, his breathing fits itself to the curve of Sekizan’s shoulders, and then he rocks back, and presses forward, and starts to move towards the most gentle rhythm he can find.

It’s a strange feeling. There’s something instinctive about this, some deep-down reflex to the motion of his hips and the flex of his body; but this is like nothing Hachioji has ever felt before, so far beyond the rushed drag of his own hand over himself as to be a wholly new experience. The tension in his stomach is similar, the catch of his breathing rising to strain in the back of his throat familiar; but he’s hotter, shakier, his whole body trembling as he moves over Sekizan with the awareness of the other beneath him. Sekizan is tight beneath him, tight around him, his body clenching and easing against Hachioji’s length in a rhythm running wholly separately from Hachioji’s own motion; and Hachioji can’t think for the intensity rushing over him, for the self-awareness that keeps spilling through him to steal the breath from his lips and leave him shaking and gasping like he’s been running wind sprints, like he’s at the end of one of their marathon training sessions.

“Sekizan,” he says, hearing his voice spill up from the depths of his chest as he moves, as his legs flex to push him forward, as his body tenses to pull him back for another thrust. He can hear Sekizan’s breathing against the sheets, can feel it in the weight of humidity in the air; Sekizan’s shoulders are shifting with each forward motion Hachioji takes, his arms tensing and flexing as if to brace himself steady against the other’s movement. His skin is flushed pink, the color of the sakura blossoms on the shirt he stripped off earlier; Hachioji has never seen anything so incredible. He gusts an exhale, closes his eyes, and ducks to press his nose to Sekizan’s hair, to let the dark strands catch and tangle against the force of his breathing.

“You’re so beautiful,” Hachioji says, murmuring the words into a whisper of sincerity, and then he loosens his hold on Sekizan’s hip and lets his hand slide in and under to fumble for a hold against the other’s cock. He can feel Sekizan jerk at the first brush of his fingers, can feel the flex of the other’s body arch and curve under him, and as he tightens his grip into a hold against the strain of flushed skin Sekizan makes a desperate noise, low and shaky and almost pleading in the back of his throat. His hips jerk, his body cants forward towards Hachioji’s touch, and Hachioji can feel the strain of it, can feel the shift pull against him where he’s pressing inside Sekizan’s body, as if he’s experiencing the heat and tension of the other’s arousal secondhand, and he’s sure right then that he’s not going to be able to last.

“God,” he says again, hearing his voice strain for traction in his throat, “Sekizan” and he moves, stroking up over Sekizan’s length at the same time his own hips buck forward in reflexive motion. It’s an awkward movement -- there’s no elegance to it, no polish and hardly any intention -- but Sekizan still shudders under him, still moans a breath like it’s being pulled out of him by force as his whole body tenses in a helpless jolt of reaction.

“ _Oh_ ,” he groans, and Hachioji has never heard Sekizan sound like that, never heard his voice dip so low in his chest like it’s coming from some unmapped depths of heat, like it’s unravelling from the very core of who he is. “ _Mutsumi_.” And then, at once, with a gasp of panic, “Oh, god, I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“It’s okay,” Hachioji says, immediately, talking right over Sekizan without even waiting for the other to finish his thought. “I don’t mind, it’s fine.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Sekizan says, sounding desperate even as his voice shudders in his throat and his shoulders tense against the weight of Hachioji over him. “I should have asked.”

Hachioji shakes his head, not caring that the motion goes unseen by Sekizan beneath him. “I like it,” he says; and then, with his heart hammering in his chest and his skin tingling hot with more than the simple pleasure of arousal: “Takuya,” the syllables sliding off his tongue like they were meant to be there. Sekizan catches a breath, his body tightens under Hachioji’s, and Hachioji leans in closer, until his lips are almost brushing Sekizan’s ear, until he can feel every shudder of reaction running through the other’s body under his. “I’ve wanted to hear you say my name for  _years_.”

“Oh,” Sekizan gasps, sounding startled and almost shy; and then Hachioji’s hand slips, his fingers drag up roughly over the head of the other’s cock, and Sekizan jolts under him, his head angling back at the same time his lips part on heat. “ _Mutsumi_.”

“Like that,” Hachioji groans, with more heat on his lips than conscious encouragement, and he keeps stroking, jerking up over Sekizan with more focus to the action than he’s even sparing for the intermittent motion of his hips. Sekizan is gasping, is panting like he can’t find air, like he’s sprinting full-speed across a field; and Hachioji is moving faster, stroking harder, his every motion urged to greater speed by the shift of Sekizan’s shoulders under him and the sound of Sekizan’s voice breaking in the back of the other’s throat.

“Fuck,” Hachioji says, his heart pounding so hard in his chest he can’t breathe, can barely think for the rush of adrenaline coursing through him. “Come on, Takuya, come  _on_ , come--” and Sekizan’s breathing catches, his shoulders strain, and Hachioji’s breath stalls at his lips as Sekizan’s whole body goes tight beneath him. His fingers clench at Sekizan’s cock, his hold strains against the other’s length; and Sekizan moans a sound so low and hot Hachioji would swear he can feel his cock jump in response as Sekizan’s hips jerk forward and wet spurts hot against Hachioji’s grip. Sekizan turns his head down against the sheets, gasping and shaking as his body tightens and eases with each jolt of pleasure; and Hachioji is moving without even thinking, rocking his hips forward with rough need before he can think it might be too much, before he can worry about hurting Sekizan beneath him. There’s a moment of panic, of fear strong enough to dominate even the overwhelming want in him; but then Sekizan groans, the sound so hot and low there’s no question as to his pleasure, and Hachioji is moving again without reaching for words, instinct taking over to rock his hips into a rhythm to thrust as far into Sekizan as he can, to seek out the tremors of friction gripping around him with each wave of sensation through the other’s body. Hachioji’s gasping lungfuls of heat, his legs are shaking and his arms are straining and his breathing is coming loud and desperate; and then he drives forward, and Sekizan clenches hard around him, and everything comes undone in a sudden surge of pleasure. Hachioji can feel it down in the depths of his stomach, can feel it spread out to sweep into his chest and fill all the spaces within the heat of his body, and when he comes it’s with a shout, “ _Takuya_ ” spilling from the flex of his lungs as the whole of his existence goes hot and bright and brilliant. For a moment it’s everything, the heat and the friction and the pleasure rolling through him in a wave that crests through every part of him; and then it eases, and ebbs, and Hachioji is left shaking and panting for air over Sekizan gasping beneath him.

It takes them a few minutes to disentangle themselves. Hachioji’s whole body feels weak, shaky like he’s just finished hours of practice, and Sekizan’s usual coordination is so far gone it takes him two tries just to brace himself against the bed so he can turn over once Hachioji has managed to lift himself back and up to kneel at the end of the mattress. Sekizan lies on his side for a moment, blinking vaguely at the wall next to him; and then he turns his head to look up at Hachioji gazing down at him. His hair is tangled over his face, dark waves and pale ringlets alike winding into each other to catch at the shift of his lashes; he lifts his hand to push them back and clear his vision, and Hachioji is sure the unthinking flex of the other’s arm is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Hachi--” Sekizan starts, and then cuts himself off, pressing his lips tight together as his cheeks color with self-consciousness. He swallows hard and looks away before he tries again. “I mean. Mutsumi.”

Hachioji bites at his lip, not sure if he wants to laugh or smile all over his face. “Mm?”

Sekizan’s cheeks darken further; he clears his throat, this time, the roughness of the sound completely undermined by the obvious embarrassment across his face. “Thank you.”

Hachioji does laugh, then. It’s impossible not to, when the whole of his body feels like it might just lift up off the bed with the glow of satisfaction so warm in his veins. “You’re welcome,” he says, grinning wide as Sekizan looks sideways through his lashes at him, and he’s leaning in as quickly, reaching to brace himself against the sheets as he tips in towards the other. Sekizan turns up to meet him, shifting against the bed with unconscious grace to match Hachioji’s approach as he blinks up at the other over him. “Happy birthday, Takuya.” And he ducks in to press his lips to the shy softness of Sekizan’s smile.

The best presents, he decides, are those they can share with each other.


End file.
